Stop Asking Me What I Am

Twice in 30 days, strangers asked if I was Indigenous — not after hearing my story, but after looking at my skin.

Let me be clear: there is no small-talk version of “What are you?” that isn’t loaded. There is no casual way to ask about someone’s heritage without carrying centuries of assumptions, prejudice, and power imbalances in your voice.

At a recent networking event, where I showed up professional, confident, and unapologetically tattooed, someone asked me about the ink on my arm. A phoenix in flames. A lotus in bloom. Symbols of survival and rebirth. Symbols that speak to me. Not my lineage. Not my ancestry. Certainly not anything “tribal.”

I explained their meaning with pride, and then came the follow-up: “So, you’re Indigenous?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a judgment masked as curiosity. It wasn’t about connection. It was about classification.

And without missing more than a beat, maybe still trying to be polite, maybe not ready to confront it,  I said, “Yes. A fact I only learned last year through DNA testing.” And I pivoted the conversation back to tattoos.

But the truth is that the question stayed with me long after the small talk ended.

I’m still unpacking what it means to discover a part of my heritage I didn’t grow up knowing. I’m still reckoning with the responsibility, the history, the identity that comes with it - and what it doesn’t come with. That’s mine to process. On my time. With my people.

You don’t get to pull it out of me like it’s trivia.

The first time it happened, it was at my son’s school. A staff member who is kind and well-meaning, I’m sure, asked the same question. No matter the reason, it still caught me off guard. Because even when it’s asked nicely, the sting remains. Because it reminds me: some people still see ethnicity as a checkbox before they see humanity.

Would you stop mid-conversation to ask someone, “Oh, so you’re Black?”

Would you interrupt a parent-teacher meeting to say, “So you’re Jewish?”

Would you whisper across a boardroom, “You’re Queer, right?”

No? Then why is this any different?

Here’s the thing: my identity is not yours to assume. My skin is not an invitation.

And my heritage, especially one I’m still learning to honour, is not a conversation starter.

Yes, it’s Indigenous Heritage Month. But for those who carry it, heritage isn’t just a month.

Black history isn’t just a month.

Pride isn’t just June.

It’s every day. It’s lived experience. It’s sacred.

So the next time you feel compelled to ask someone what they “are,” stop and ask yourself this: Are you asking out of respect, or are you asking to put them in a box that makes you feel more comfortable?

I am not defined by your assumptions.

I am not explained by your curiosity.

And I do not owe anyone a history lesson to justify my presence.

If you're going to see me, really see me, see the fire, the roots, the rising.

Not the label you were hoping to attach.